Altered Reality
by Vixxen
Summary: Just a little fluff after Buffy's death. Gist is, Angel goes to find her in heaven. (B/A, obviously. hint of A/F)


Altered Reality. 

Disclaimer: It's not mine, 'cept for the concert of Brach Aisling and the whole plotline of the story. 

In the calm between sleep and death, there exists a reality unlike this one. There, you make your world, you don't merely spectate, you breathe it, you squeeze the fabric of the walls out of your pores, your blood is the mortar for it's bricks. There, what you percieve is not what is there. Things can be changed, altered, twisted and molded and shaped into whatever you desire. This is ours. This place, this dream can be whatever we wish. We can make our nightmares here, we can manufacture our reality. Does it have a name?  The Druids called it Brách Aisling, or Eternal Dream. Later on, a Celtic witch visited this land, calling it Ait o' Aingeal, or Land of Angels. Call it what you will, there have been many accounts of it; Italian, Roman, Greek, African, Persian, Arabic, and many…many more. Few are chosen. Few possess the power to even touch, sense this place. The few who can reach out to this place of clarity, are gifted with the sight. 

They fortell the future, they are the prophets. 

But they are not the dreamers. 

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It was cold there. Frost clung to her hair and skin; a hard outer layer. Somehow, she knew, there had to be a warmer place. It helped sometimes to think about it there, imagine it, imagine it, can it be real? Warmth kissing your cheeks, blessing the crown of your hair…smoothing worries and melting away the ice.

Burning. Burning. Make it stop. 

It wasn't supposed to do this, frantic little sweepings, trying to wipe the burns from your arms, hurry! Hurry! It's spreading, your face, so black, now the heat is melting your eyes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's so black. Stopstopstopstopstopstop…keep screaming, maybe somebody'll hear. 

You're alone, nobody can hear, you're alone, alive, dying, screaming, help her, help me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, all the saints that I can't remember. Saint Patrick? Saint Catherine? They can't hear me. Saint Francis? Saint Jerome? Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead and gone, why aren't I? 

Please…don't leave me here, here with the heat, the ice, the memories. But they've forgotten, let them forget, I want to remember remember when? Remember when Mommy…no, don't, hurts to think about her. But am I thinking? Do I think? What kind of thought process can a dead person have? All alone, rock back and forth, pray, goddamnit, pray, God help us now…in this time of need. God grant me the serenity… god…can't remember, can't remember. I'll never forget. 

Am I here? 

Am I?

Am I? 

Please let someone come. Please.

The silence is scary, scary as the demons haunting your nights, days, days are fatal to vampires. To Angel. Pangs, pangs, beats of the heart which stab like knives. 

Pleasepleasepleaseplease…don't go. Don't don't don't…why can't I stop? Am I gone? Am I here? Tell me. 

Tell me what to do, 

Tell me what to say. 

Tell me I'm not alone. 

Whispers… he could hear them, with the incline of his head, brow pulled together, brooding on his mind. Why was he here? He had to find her. Wasn't she….wasn't she gone? No. No. No. Don't say it… then. 

"Sorry to…bother you, but, are-are there any tacos left? I'm gettin' kinda hungry…I…just…" Look, Look, look at the brown hair, brown eyes, so expectant. Thought I loved her, she's so much like a little mouse. Nose twitching, fingers scrabbling at walls, little mousie's come to play. Didn't love her, think, why didn't you? Becauses she's not Buffy. Little Fred, can't be loved, she's not the love of his dreams. She can't be her, won't ever be her, doesn't have the scent of vanilla on her skin, soft, innocent. Her hair is brown; the other's gold, spun gold, the kind you want to tuck away, the kind that makes the sun smile and the moon glow. This one, the quiet mouse, gave him a smile, not Buffy's smile, Fred's smile. Give her the bag, so he did; shoved it into her waiting arms, left her to devour the greasy cheese and bread and meat, left her to scramble into her den, waiting for him behind a rock. 

Let him go on.

Don't care.

She's not Buffy.

Find her find her find her, sniff her out, smell her, feel her, love her. Something was whispering again, and he could feel it, hear it, it was saying his name saying 'please don't leave me…' 'so alone…alone…' and before that, it was screaming fire, fire fire, and he went towards it. The voice shouted 'tell me I'm not alone.' And he raced to her, gathered her into his arms, cradled and rocked her, sing lullabye… sing. Deep voice, whisper. She wanted to sleep, go to sleep baby, little girl climbing into his lap, his Buffy, his life, his love. He smiled at her, he kissed her pretty face, saying something he forgets. 

"You can sleep now." 

So Buffy Anne Summers, the Slayer, fell asleep in the arms of the Vampire Angel. And the sun rose in Brách Aisling, and they began to fade, two lovers entwined, two souls met in love. Forever. 

And as the little mouse crept back to the glowing rip in reality, she knew he wasn't coming. Back into her dimensional portal she went, preparing to tell this to her comrades—an explanation that she could hardly understand. They would never understand. With her greasy bag in hand, the last thing he'd given to her, she twitched her nose a bit and stuck a foot into the energy. At least he was happy. And they—those anxious friends, waiting for an arrival that would never come—would they wish him well? They were happy. He was happy. And the million realities, the ones that contained a thousand possibilities, they kept on moving. 

FIN! 


End file.
